


The Bloody Heart

by rosekay



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fairy Tales, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:04:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dark wood, a Grimm all in red meets the big bad wolf. Fill for grimm_kink prompt: <i>Eddie really is the Big Bad Wolf and he spies Nick walking to his Aunt's house one night.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bloody Heart

Once there was a wolf with a fearsome appetite who stalked the dark forest for morsels to eat. A wintry day, he happened upon just such a morsel, who was on his way to see an ailing aunt. The wolf could smell the delicious food he had prepared, the fine, dry wine that rested fragrant in the bottle, and the buttery notes of the strong ale that clinked alongside it. Most of all, he could smell the morsel himself, who was a young man fair of skin and dark of hair, ripe blood pulsing sweetly through the long column of his throat. The wolf could smell what a bright and rich red that blood must be, as red as the coat the young man wore to ward off the cold, which had touched his cheeks with a tempting blush to match his garb.

When he appeared on the path though, the young man showed no fear, and the wolf saw the rifle slung sleek and black over one shoulder.

"Little red," said the wolf with a toothy smile, "what brings you to the woods today?"

"My aunt is sick," said the young man, holding out his satchel, where the bottles clinked invitingly, "and I go to her house."

"Oh?" said the wolf, whose stomach growled fiercely, the plump red of the young man's lips and and the nervous red swipe of his tongue driving him to distraction. "And what is her name, your aunt?"

The young man smiled and daringly leaned in close, the one spot of warmth in a forest all black with the dying day and white with falling snow. He whispered the name in the wolf's ear. It was a name that held more power than the rifle he carried, more power than a dark wood or a wolf's fangs.

The wolf's hunger had made him fierce, but it had not made him foolish. He drew back in alarm.

"How big your eyes are," said the young man, advancing.

"The better to see my way in the dark," said the wolf.

"How wide your mouth is," said the young man, his clear eyes quiet certain.

"The better to taste good ale," said the wolf.

"How rough your hands are," said the young man, looking down, as if searching for claws.

"The better to make my clocks," said the wolf, whose hunger had been nipped by fear.

For you see, the boy's aunt had walked in the wintry wood years ago in a cloak of red, and happened upon a wolf with an appetite just as fearsome. But she had been no little girl who feared the darkness. She had the blood of brave hunters in her, and though it was red and ripe and tempting, it would be a drink that carried a price. She had climbed out of the eager wolf's belly with bloody hands, and sated the sleeping creature's hunger with a meal of stones. Her steady hands guided a needle of bone and thread of sinew to sew the wolf whole again. He had drowned in the river, pulled down by the water's dark hands and the weight of his last repast, breathing the name, Marie.

The story was legend, and the wolf quaked in fear.

"I'll let you go," he offered, cowering.

"Good boy," the young man laughed, bright as his blood might be in the snow.

The wolf became angry at that. "What if she kills me anyway? She is not known for her mercy. Why shouldn't I have a nice last meal before I die?"

"A last meal?" The young man put his satchel down. "I could do that."

He unbuttoned the collar of his bright coat, pale fingers stark against the vivid wool, and tilted his chin up just so. The wolf felt hunger coil in his stomach, and it wasn't a hunger that would be sated with wine and ale and meat. The skin of the young man's throat was not so fair as to match the snow, but it had the quality of fine marble, blood beating behind it like unmixed wine. The wolf's mouth grew dry with want. He whined, averting his eyes.

"Is this a trick?"

"No trick," said the young man. "It _is_ your turn though."

So the wolf shed clothes until the skin of his human form shivered in the cold, hairs standing on end. The young man looked upon the broad shoulders and narrow chest, the line of hair that raced down toward where the wolf's cock filled with blood. He came closer and lifted one lip, and then the other, to see the bright gleam of a fang, until the wolf growled despite himself, trembling with the effort of keeping still. Without his fierce hunger, he was tall without the meaty strength of his brothers, lean arms and gawky intent, slouching towards the young man where another might have prowled.

"You're not done yet," said the young man, who had discarded his coat in the snow like a splash of blood.

So the wolf kept shedding until he was all fang and could hold it in no longer, the slouch taking on an animal grace as he forced the young man to give him the softness of throat and belly. He tasted the marble throat, and the softness of the soot black hair, the hands that smelled like good, bitter ale. The young man laughed white clouds into the still air, placing one capable hand over what had been the wolf's clever clock-maker's fingers. They were dangerous with flesh, clawing signatures into his side. The other he pressed over the wolf's thumping heart, the blood there as vivid against his palm as the scent of his own had been to the hungry wolf.

The young man was born of hunters, and his aunt had taught him there were many ways to bring down dangerous prey. He needed no bone needle or sinew to break the wolf apart and make him whole again, only a coat that sprawled like blood in the snow and a waiting smile. There were worse things in the dark wood than the company of wolves.

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this as a spiritual crossover/fusion with Angela Carter's famous _The Bloody Chamber_ , the source of parts of the title and last line.


End file.
